adictory inspirations can
traverse the mind in the time occupied by a flash of lightning.

On the sudden apparition of the young Marquis de Sairmeuse, Maurice
d'Escorval's first thought was this:

"How long has he been there? Has he been playing the spy? Has he been
listening to us? What did he hear?"

His first impulse was to spring upon his enemy, to strike him in the
face, and compel him to engage in a hand-to-hand struggle.

The thought of Anne-Marie checked him.

He reflected upon the possible, even probable results of a quarrel born
of such circumstances. The combat which would ensue would cost this pure
young girl her reputation. Martial would talk of it; and country people
are pitiless. He saw this girl, whom he looked so devotedly upon, become
the talk of the neighborhood; saw the finger of scorn pointed at her,
and possessed sufficient self-control to master his anger. All these
reflections had occupied only half a second.

Then, politely touching his hat, and stepping toward Martial:

"You are a stranger, Monsieur," said he, in a voice which was
frightfully altered, "and you have doubtless lost your way?" His words
were ill-chosen, and defeated his prudent intentions. A curt "Mind your
own business" would have been less wounding. He forgot that this word
"stranger" was the most deadly insult that one could cast in the face of
the former _emigres_, who had returned with the allied armies.

Still the young marquis did not change his insolently nonchalant
attitude.

He touched the visor of his hunting cap with his finger, and replied:

"It is true--I have lost my way."

Agitated as Marie-Anne was, she could not fail to understand that her
presence was all that restrained the hatred of these two young men.
Their attitude, the glance with which they measured each other, did not
leave the shadow of a doubt on that score. If one was ready to spring
upon the other, the other was on the alert, ready to defend himself.

The silence of nearly a moment which followed was as threatening as the
profound calm which precedes the storm.

Martial was the first to break it.

"A peasant's directions are not generally remarkable for their
clearness," he said, lightly; "and for more than an hour I have been
seeking the house to which Monsieur Lacheneur has retired."

"Ah!"

"I am sent to him by the Duc de Sairmeuse, my father."

Knowing what he did, Maurice supposed that these strangely rapacious
individuals h